Web by Sam Phillips
Season of Stars & Vidrick’s Poem
At the poles
there are only two: summer,
and night.
In the tropics,
hot,
and wet.
Artifacts of mid-
latitudeness,
the traditional four.
Let me enter
the season of your smile, soar
in the hear and now of your
black-body
radiation.
MYSELF TO A PUDDLE OF RAIN
WAITING FOR THE RADIANT ONE
WHOSE SONG MELTS ONE INTO
THE LANDSCAPES OF EVERYTHING
OF TRUE EXISTENCE.
FINALLY AN ANSWER BURNT TOAST
AND A REASON AS BIRDS RETURN
AND THE SUN SHINES THROUGH
THE WINDOW
THE SCENT OF BURNING GASOLINE
AND THE CHIRP OF BIRDS RETURNING
TO THE SENSES AS THE WORLD TURNS
AND THE EYE IS BLINDED TO THE
DIMENSIONS OF ANGELS WHO
KEEP THE SWINGS FROM SLIDING
MADLY ACROSS THE BELOVED’S
PLAYGROUND
NOTHING BUT EMPTY AIR FOR CENTURIES
AS THE HOWLING OF ONE MAD SPARROW
RETURNS AND THE SOUND OF TURNING
CLOCKS AND A SWARM OF BEES ANNOUNCE
THE SPECTACLE OF A SHORT AND CROOKED
SEASON OF A THOUSAND CANDLES BURNING
Tongue-stumble aside,
let us know – down to
the souls of our skins –
the light
of distant
suns.
~ Terry Provost and Russell Vidrick